Fireflies
by Dark Rose of Heaven
Summary: During a medical follow-up, Neal strikes up an unusual conversation with his patient. Last in the pop-song-inspired WN story arc, at least for now. Technically it comes after How to Save a Life and before The Edge of Glory.


_Last one, for now :). I think I've exhausted my weird interest in this couple for the time being. Thanks for sticking with me in my psychotic odd-couple tastes!  
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><p><strong>Fireflies<strong>

_Everything is never as it seems…_

"They do things differently in Yaman." Neal frowns, though whether from concentration or disagreement with his fiancée's customs Wyldon isn't sure. The battle was weeks ago, but the healer has barely left his district commander's side. A raging fever had set in not long after Wyldon and his rescuer had been brought to the New Hope infirmary, and it had been a long, hard fight.

"How do you mean?" he asks, genuinely curious. An unusual relationship has sprung up between them these past weeks, and during lulls in Nealan's duties, they have taken to sitting together in Wyldon's temporary rooms. Sometimes they play chess, or cards, though Wyldon has learned that he will nearly always lose at the latter. Other times, like today, they simply talk while Neal performs his customary examination of his patient.

"Romantically," Neal says, and is quiet again. His brows are furrowed in that way he has whenever he is using his Gift. Already, barely twenty years old, the boy has worry lines to match his father's. Wyldon can feel the cool touch of magic in his body, but for once he doesn't fight it. "I mean, there are things that are more socially acceptable them that we would think preposterous," Neal continues as though he hadn't paused.

"Such as?"

Neal chuckles, not taking his eyes off the task at hand. "You don't have to use that dry tone with me, milord. Just a moment – what's this?" He raises a disapproving eyebrow, and Wyldon is alarmed at the inkling of embarrassment that uncurls within his belly.

"It itches," he mutters, avoiding the young man's stern gaze.

"That could signify an infection, Wyldon. You have to tell me these things," Neal says, exasperated and not concealing it very well. If there's one fault he has – and he has many, Wyldon thinks – it's that he shows his emotions far too easily.

"Very well. Next time I will," Wyldon tells him equably. Neal sends him a look of disbelief, but traces the red lines that score Wyldon's chest with a chilly finger. Another trickle of alarm prickles the hair on the back of his neck at a very satisfied, very unwarranted thought sighs, _Mithros, that feels good._

"I mean, speaking of romance," Neal says, and Wyldon scrambles to remember what they were talking about before.

"Yes?"

"They're much more open to the idea of same-gender couples." His voice is detached, as though he's carrying on the conversation with only half of his awareness. This idea is reinforced when Neal bends down to inspect his shoulder more carefully, and sends a tendril of green fire into the skin to soothe the irritated tissues. "And not only that," he continues, "but multiple partners. I mean, the nobility often have more than one wife, or even take male lovers."

Wyldon suppresses a sigh. "Most interesting, I'm sure. What is your point? Have an itch to see what sleeping with a man is like?"

Neal snorts. "I'm sure."

_Well that's a vague reply if ever I've heard one_, Wyldon thinks. Then, disregarding the voice of reason, he says, "If you want my advice, avoid sleeping with someone you know. It makes things incredibly awkward later."

Those green eyes widen slightly in surprise, and suddenly the healer is paying complete attention. "You know this from personal experience, I suppose," he offers, deceptively mild.

Wyldon, thinking of Raoul, blinks once and nods.

"_Oh_."

He allows a crooked smile to surface. "I am devoted to my wife, Nealan, as I suspect you are to yours. However, she _is_ Tusinian, and they have the same sort of tolerance that the Yamanis do for… experimentation."

Neal swallows, throat bobbing tellingly, and returns his attention to the examination. "Well, milord, you're coming along nicely. The stitches should be ready to come out in a few days. Just tell me if the scar tissue itches, and I can fix it for you." He stoops to gather a small stone jar from his healer's kit, and sets it on the bedside table as Wyldon sits up slowly and reaches for his shirt. "Rub this in before you go to bed or after you bathe – it will help prevent infection. None of your martyr's ways, understand? If I find out you're not using this, Mithros help me I'll –"

Wyldon chuckles, and bats Neal's twitching finger away. "Relax, Queenscove. When a healer gives specific orders, I follow them."

His mouth twists to one side. "Just checking. You have a terribly stoic outlook on wounds, my lord." Is it just him, or is Neal's voice a little huskier than normal?

"Pain builds character," Wyldon replies, raising his eyebrows. He swings his legs off the bed, pressing experimentally at the three healing wounds. "I'll admit I could do without chest pains, however, especially in the winter."

"Your heart is healthy as a horse's, thankfully," Neal observes. "I don't know what your chances would've been if it wasn't."

Wyldon purses his lips thoughtfully. "Then I suppose I'm doubly lucky. You ran a terrible risk, drying yourself up like that."

"It had to be done," Neal answers, shrugging. "Need a hand up, my lord?"

"Certainly not," he scowls, earning laughter from the young man. The sound lightens his heart, somehow, and he gets to his feet without strain.

"So you're advising a stranger," he says suddenly, mirth fading.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You suggest sleeping with a stranger," Neal clarifies, solemn once again.

Wyldon's eyes fall to the shirt he holds, and he sighs. "It's your choice, Nealan. It depends on what you're looking for. It's easy to claim no strings attached, but what happens when your heart gets involved?"

Neal hesitates, but weeks of growing friendship encourage him to speak. "You fell in love with someone, didn't you."

"If it wasn't love, it was something very like it." Wyldon meets his eyes squarely, wanting desperately to impress this on the young man's impressionable mind. "We were both fairly young, and more than fairly foolish. I was restless in my arranged marriage, and he was struggling with alcoholism. It was not the most logical relationship, but neither of us were much for thinking logically at the time. We just wanted an escape."

Neal chews his bottom lip. "Lord Raoul?"

Wyldon snorts quietly. "Yes."

"I'm sorry it… didn't work."

He shrugs, barely feeling the pull of scar tissue in his chest. "As I said, it wasn't logical. I grew to care for Vivienne, and he grew apart from alcohol – and from me. A natural part of growing into our manhood, our places in the Realm." In an unexpected gesture of affection, Wyldon reaches up and smooths the furrows in Neal's brow. "You're a dear friend, Nealan, and I don't want you to do something you'll regret later."

"Do you regret your time with Lord Raoul?" he asks, green eyes challenging.

"No," Wyldon admits. He can think of nothing else to say, can think of no reason to pull away when Neal moves to kiss him. And so he doesn't.


End file.
